Consulting Detectives Get Sick Too
by darthsydious
Summary: Sherlock is ill. He can be a whiny thing when he's out of sorts. Nothing our favorite pathologist can't handle.


"_MOLLY!" _

The Consulting Detective's shout could be heard throughout 221b. Molly, for her part, heard the urgency in his voice and hurried (as best as one can at six months pregnant, downstairs from painting the upstairs room.

"What's the matter?" Molly asked, breathless. She leaned against the doorway of their bedroom, catching her breath. Sherlock groaned, face down on his bed. "Oh for heavens' sake, if you wanted my attention all you had to do was text me." Again he grumbled something unintelligible into his pillow. "Sherlock I can't understand you," she said, quite annoyed now. "Do you know how hard it is to rush downstairs when you can't see your feet?" he turned his head, bleary-eyed, pale as a sheet, his hair sticking up at all angles.

"Don't feel well," he croaked.

"Oh dear," she came a little further into the room, taking the edge of his bed. She ran her fingers through his hair. "I told you to change as soon as you got home last night, it's much too cold for you to be running about in this weather!" she felt his forehead. "You're burning up too," she tsked. Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible. "Have you eaten anything?"

"Can't eat."

"Tea would do you some good, I'll go and make you a cuppa," she said, "You go lay on the couch, I can't keep an eye on you from the kitchen. Go on, I'll bring the sick bowl and your blanket." Sherlock let her put his arm over her shoulder, sitting beside him; she hoisted them to their feet, swaying slightly as she found her balance.

Depositing him on the couch, Molly filled the kettle, switching it on. She returned to the living room, tucking a hot water bottle into Sherlock's arms and wrapping him up in a blanket.

"Tea," he demanded.

"Yes it's just coming," she answered. Molly made allowances when he was sick. "Shall I have Mary pick up a few things from the store? I think some ginger-ale will sooth your stomach, and a box of ice-lollies."

A few hours later and John came through the door, a bag under his arm.

"Mary was out but she sent me your text," he said. "How's our boy doing?" he asked as Molly nodded hello.

"Better, he still has a temperature, but he hasn't thrown up. I managed to make him eat a piece of toast. He's been watching telly and sleeping on and off."

"Sherlock," John opened the box of ice-lollies, fishing one out. "Here, eat this,"

"What is that?"

"What does it look like? Just eat it," John said. Sherlock tugged at the paper.

"This is green, hate green,"

"Ugh," John rolled his eyes, digging through the box. "Here, I think this one is red," He traded popsicles, handing the green one to Molly. He put the rest in the freezer, depositing the rest of the groceries in the fridge.

"I made chicken soup if you're hungry," Molly replied, hands on her hips, looking quite tired. "And Ella's bedroom is all painted." Her weariness did not go amiss and John frowned, reaching for her.

"You feeling ok?"

"Back hurts today, is all," she shrugged. "Let Mary know she can come help paint the baby's room tomorrow with me if she's free."

"Head hurts," Sherlock complained from the couch.  
"Don't eat so fast," Molly replied. Sherlock grunted in response.

"Hate this show,"

"For pity's sake," John grabbed the remote, changing the channel.  
"Worse," Sherlock called. John changed the channel again. "That's even worse-" the tv winked off. "Hey!"

"If you can't be civil and say please, then the telly is staying off," Sherlock leaned back against the pillows.

"Molly, will you please turn on the telly?"

"Why does she get a please?"

"Because Molly made me soup," Sherlock paused. "And her back hurts." Molly made kissy faces at John, who only shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"There," Molly set the channel on some silly tv drama. "Now be quiet." He 'hummed' in response, already distracted by the poorly written plot.

"What's your prognosis, Doctor?" John asked, peeling off his gloves and coat.

"Usually my patients are dead," she replied, returning to the stove. "But I think he caught something from running all over London, dripping wet in this weather."

"Hm, temperature?"  
"Ninety-nine last I checked. It's been steady for most of the day."

"He hasn't been too much trouble has he?" John asked, knowing how demanding Sherlock could be when he was ill.

"Actually no, he's been rather quiet; I don't think he would have bothered me except that he had a temperature." John felt Sherlock's forehead (he'd fallen asleep once again, having finished the ice-lolly).

"Feels like his temperature is going up,"

"I'll make him a compress," Molly said and headed to the sink. "Thanks for bringing the groceries."

"No problem," he paused. "Shall I stay with him so you can rest up?"

"You don't have to, Mary and Ella will be home I'm sure, they'll want their dinner too." John nodded with a laugh.

"Yes they will, I'd better get started on it, just shout if you need anything,"

"I will, thank you."

She returned with a wet cloth, she folded it, placing it on Sherlock's forehead. He awoke with a start.

"Cold!" he complained,

"You're burning up," Molly said. "It's this or a lukewarm bath." Sherlock groused and complained at being moved about on the couch. Molly shifted him down further so she could sit with his head on her lap (or what was left of her lap.

"Head hurts," Sherlock grumbled.

"Yes I know it does," Molly combed her fingers through his hair. He groaned to himself, quietly mumbling. She giggled at this.

"Don't," Sherlock complained as his head bobbed up and down from her tummy, "Makes my head hurt more,"

"Oh shush, go to sleep, and in a while you'll have a little soup," Molly promised. Sherlock, for his part, shut his eyes, sighing heavily. Molly rested her head against the back of the couch, echoing his sigh.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, eyes still closed.

"Upstairs, what's the matter?"

"Tell 'im I can feel the baby moving." Sherlock's ear was against her belly. Molly smiled down at him.

"Yes, I know, why does John need to come down?"

"He's got a stethoscope. Want to hear the heartbeat, make sure it's regular."

"I'll text him."

John was downstairs in a few moments, stethoscope around his neck.

"Alright, who am I listening to?" both Sherlock and Molly pointed to her belly. "Ah, a new one," he said cheerfully. He knelt down as Sherlock sat up. Placing the stethoscope over Molly's belly, he looked at his watch. After a moment, he handed the headset over to Sherlock, letting him hear for himself. He laid back down, listening to the baby's heartbeat.

"I wouldn't expect that back anytime soon," Molly said with a laugh.

"Keep it, I've got another," John said with a shrug.

"Shh!" Sherlock hissed at them.

"Goodnight Molls," John whispered, waving goodbye.

"It's not a bad feeling," Sherlock mumbled, tracing lines along the curve of her belly. Molly couldn't help but laugh a little.

"No it's not," she carded her fingers through his hair. "For now at any rate," she said, half to herself.

"I like hearing the heartbeat," He said, slowly he opened his eyes. She turned the compress over on his forehead, keeping her hand there for a moment. When he didn't say anymore, she shut her eyes, leaning her head back again. "Love you Molly." She lifted her head, looking down at her husband.

"I love you too." His eyes were still closed. He tugged the wet flannel off his forehead.

"This is too cold." She sighed with a smile, rolling her eyes. She placed it back on his forehead.

"Leave it on for another ten minutes," she said.

"Humph."

"Just ten more minutes and then I'll bring you a bowl of soup."

"Huh. You're only hoping I'll fall asleep," he slurred, eyes already closed.

"You've seen through my plan entirely Mr. Holmes," she smiled.

"See? Perfectly able to solve crimes…deduce…things…" wherever his train of thought was going, it was swiftly losing speed. In a few moments he was fast off, ear pressed against her belly. Combing her fingers through his curls, she shut her eyes, finding sleep was quite welcome.


End file.
